Heartland
by gothiktenkasen
Summary: When I was Reaped for the 64th annual Hunger Games, I had no idea I would be fighting for more than just my life. OC/OC Rated T for mature themes: violence, sexuality. Might elevate to M rating for future chapters.
1. Reaping Day

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games, only my characters.

**A/N:** The main character's name is pronounced per-see-eye.

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**Chapter One **

Reaping Day

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When I open my eyes, the barn is still dark. I can hear the horses below me padding softly in their stalls. Epona always tells us that the horses can sense our anxiety. Maybe that's why they're as restless as us on Reaping Day.

The girls around me are beginning to stir. I lay still, counting my breaths as I wait for the sunlight to trickle through the cracks of the barn. This is the time we always get up to feed and water the horses, muck out the stalls and round up the cattle. But there will be no work today. Today we will scrub our skin clean, drag combs through our hair and wear our nice clothes. We'll file into District 10's town square like cattle and wait for the Reaping.

"Persei? Are you awake?" I turn my head a little to see Margo's wide set blue eyes shining at me in the dim light.

"I'm awake." Epona's ranch has two small barns in edition to her tiny house. The female ranch hands sleep in the loft of one barn and the male ranch hands sleep in the loft of the other barn. Epona lives in her house with her two big herding dogs. There are about 15 of us living here year round in the barns. Epona will cycle in seasonal workers if there's too much for us to do.

Epona runs a small cattle ranch. District 10 provides the livestock for the Capitol, along with any livestock byproduct including milk, cheese, meat, leather and fibers for textiles. The wool we shear from sheep is the only thing that isn't sent directly to the Capitol. We load it onto trains for District 8, the textiles district.

"How did you sleep?" Margo asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Alright." I lie. Margo is the same age as I am, seventeen, and brown from the sun. I've known her for about four years. That was when Epona brought her in for work. Epona likes to grumble that she has the terrible habit of picking up strays but I think it was her years in the community house that make her sympathetic to orphans. I almost went to the community house when both my parents died of fever but Epona took me in. I was ten.

"Do you have anything to wear today?" Margo's question feels silly, normal almost. Something one would ask living the high life in the Capitol. I humor her.

"Yeah. A hand me down from Channing after she got married." Channing used to be one of Epona's strays too, before she married a goat breeder last year. She gave me her old Reaping dress before she left. It's folded in a trunk in Epona's house right now. All of our Reaping clothes are.

The horses get more restless beneath us and the golden light from the sun is beginning to flood the cracks. All the other girls are awake now. I sit up and get to my feet, moving to open the loft doors. District 10 is an expanse of tall green grass and a few trees here and there. There are some small hills but they're few and far between. The mountains are so far in the distance, they're blue. The sky is clear and the summer heat is already rising so early in the morning. Today will be uncomfortably hot; I can taste it in the air.

I take the ladder down to the ground level of the barn. Margo is close behind me. We begin feeding and watering the horses with the other girls. Normally, there's more chatter and work is assigned. Today we are quiet. The Reaping is at noon so there's time for us to get ready. We let the horses out before taking the small trek to Epona's house. The boys are quick to join us.

Epona is already standing on her front porch waiting for us when we get within earshot of her cottage. She's a short woman with wiry gray hair and a hawkish nose. She smokes a pipe and her two dogs perk their ears at us.

"You know where the buckets are. I'll lay your clothes out for you." She says with a nod.

Of the 19 ranch hands Epona currently has employed, 11 of us are eligible for the Reaping. Margo, myself, fourteen year old Pam and thirteen year old Elle for the girls; eighteen year old Cord, sixteen year olds Alto and Gunnar, fifteen year old Struve and three new boys whose names I didn't know. Epona had brought them in over the past two weeks.

Epona has two stalls in the back, both with big basins. There are towels hung on the stalls and a well pump nearby, along with a couple buckets. I grab one bucket and make my way to the pump. Cord joins me at the well, observing me with his strong arms folded across his chest as I pumped the water.

"Happy Hunger Games." He quips as towers over me. Most people tower over me. I'm small by nature, even Elle, who's four years younger than me, is taller. I straighten as I finish pumping and wipe my forehead of sweat. Cord barely reaches eye level with me when he bends down to set his bucket beneath the spout.

"Good luck today, Cord." I keep my features neutral and he doesn't look at me as he starts pumping.

"Good luck, short stuff." I lug my bucket back to washing stalls and think about how many times my name is entered this year. Because Epona runs an alternative to the state run community home that the Capitol does not sponsor, we are allowed to enter our names for tesserae as a de facto family. Epona has never forced us to enter our names more than once but if we didn't, we would probably starve. My name is in the lottery 20 times. While District 10 is one of the poorer districts, we don't have it as bad as 12. Not everyone needs tessera as badly every year.

But my name is still in there 20 times.

We each scrub down in the basin, emptying it before the next person gets in. The water is cold and there's only enough privacy to hide us from the boys. My teeth chatter when it's my turn and Margo washes my dark brown hair as I use a bristle brush to scrub my hands and feet. I'm the last to go and the towel is a bit damp but it's better than nothing. Pam and Elle are already dressed in their Reaping clothes and empty the basin for me as Margo and I head inside.

The boys get ready in the kitchen while I follow Margo into Epona's bedroom. It's small and sparse but neat. The bed is made and the dress Channing left for me is displayed on the sheets. I hand the towel to Margo; we're no longer embarrassed to be naked in front of one another. Living in such close quarters does that to you.

I put on my bra and underwear before pulling on the thin, white cotton dress. Margo dresses faster than I do and is towel drying my hair while I struggle with the tiny buttons. We comb each other's hair out and I braid her curls around her head like a crown. I leave my own hair damp and loose around my shoulders. We stand side by side to inspect our reflection in Epona's old spotted mirror. Margo stands taller than me, her caramel skin freckled and warm. Her auburn crown glows dully in the light and her blue eyes are set on my round face. She squeezes my hand reassuringly.

"You'll be okay, moon face." She says lightly. Moon face is something Epona began calling me when she first brought me on and most of the other ranch hands call me that too. Some people in town assume my round face comes from being well fed but my mother had a round face too, from what I remember, and I don't recall the last time my stomach was ever really full. My bangs are already beginning to dry, hanging to just below my thick eyebrows and above my almond shaped eyes.

"You'll be okay too." I try to promise but I can't. None of us can promise that. The door creaks open and Epona puffs on her pipe.

"Time to go." I turn to face her and while her face is hard, something in her gaze softens. She smoothes a wrinkle in Margo's dress and fluffs my bangs, "The wagon's ready." She states shortly and we follow her out.

Epona normally takes the wagon into town to buy feed for the horses and sell milk and cows to the butcher. On Reaping days, she hooks the wagon up to three horses and we all pile into the back and drive into town. I suppose it's not much different.

All the stalls of the town square are closed and the shops are dark. Workers from the Capitol have erected a platform in front of the Great Hall, where district meetings occur. Immense flat screens tower above us, images of people filing in projected onto them. District 10 doesn't have many tall buildings and cameramen are perched at the highest points, pointing their lenses down at us.

The boys clamber off the wagon first and Cord picks me up by the waist and hoists me off. He sets me on my feet. Normally, I'd snap at him for acting like I can't do anything myself but instead I just tell him thanks. I'm not in the mood to bicker.

Peacekeepers sit at two large tables in front of roped off areas. The girls and I nod tersely at the boys and Epona before we make our way to the female section. I keep my gaze focused straight ahead as I fall into line, painfully aware of the huge crowd. The hum is tense, likes bees in a hive.

"Next." I step forward and offer my finger to a female Peacekeeper. Her expression is blank as she pricks me with her handheld machine. I see my name _Persei Moon_ displayed in green letters while she presses my bleeding finger into her giant book. I move to stand with other girls my age. Margo stands beside me.

On the platform, there are two small tables with giant glass bowls. One for the boys and one for the girls. To the left is a podium. Behind them, four chairs are lined up. Mayor Temple sits in one of them. His face is like stone.

"His son just turned twelve." Margo whispers in my ear. I nod. Any parent would fear their child's name being chosen but this would be little Temple's first Reaping. His name is only in there once.

Sitting beside Mayor Temple is Loc Rhod, District 10's escort. He speaks animatedly to Mayor Temple, who seems to be barely paying attention. Loc's white blonde hair is styled in a strange coil that almost protrudes from the crown of his head like a horn. If this weren't Reaping Day, I'd probably laugh. His dark brown skin glistens with golden powder and he wears a velvet body suit with a large, stiff off shoulder collar. Propped up next to him appears to be a bejeweled cane.

Capitol citizens always baffle me. At least, Loc does. He's the only Capitol citizen I've ever seen and if the rest of the Capitol is like him, I don't know how they can tolerate each other.

Sitting on Loc's other side is the brooding winner of the 35th Hunger Games, Ramsay Wellwood. He was reaped at sixteen and proved to be a fierce competitor, ruthlessly slaughtering his opponents when they attacked him. The final battle took place between himself and two Careers. He ended up losing his left eye. While victors are allowed to live in luxury for the rest of their lives, Ramsay went back to being a butcher's apprentice and now owns his own shop. He'll only buy cattle from Epona.

On Ramsay's right is Bourdain Swift, winner of the 26th Hunger Games. While Ramsay is stocky with straw blonde hair, Bourdain is lanky with ruddy skin and salt and pepper curls. He's sprawled in his chair and drinking from a flask. Neither of them looks at each other. I don't know too much about Bourdain, other than he was reaped at 18 and came from a family of apothecaries. He was an unlikely victor.

Out of the past sixty-three Hunger Games, District 10 has only produced three victors. Two of them sit on the platform. The first died before I was born.

The Great Hall's clock tower strikes one and Loc gracefully stands, his lanky limbs moving like ribbon in the wind. He snaps his cane on the platform a few times to get our attention.

"Welcome, lovely denizens of District 10! How y'all feelin' on this beautiful summer day?" Loc beams down at us, his treble voice rattling out words rapid fire. The crowd is quiet. Unperturbed, Loc continues, "Well, the Capitol has sent this amazing film to watch so how 'bout we get that started?" We stare up at the screens and President Snow's voice booms from the speakers.

I've seen this video at every Reaping and every time, my stomach twists into knots. I always wonder if the Capitol would still treat the Hunger Games as a festivity if their own children were sent into the arena every year. I've never uttered those words out loud. As far as the poor districts go, District 10 has it pretty good and I don't want to be the one to ruin it for everyone else.

The film ends and Loc stands to the side, still beaming, as Mayor Temple rises to the podium. He reads off the names of District 10's three victors: Elena Holdway, Bourdain Swift and Ramsay Wellwood. Bourdain raises his flask in toast. I can't tell if he's drunk or really bold enough to mock the Games. Ramsay sits there smoldering with his arms crossed.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Loc chimes, taking over the spotlight. The mayor sits back down. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Token applause ripple through the crowd. He goes on to say how happy he is to be back and how he's missed the smell of District 10 and the beautiful skies. To his credit, Loc does sound genuine. From my knowledge, he's never resented being assigned to a poor district. But it could just be that his smile is surgically implanted and he's incapable of frowning. What do I know?

I can see the back of Elle's head from where I'm standing and when I look to my left, I can see my fellow ranch hands. One of the younger boys, whose name I can't remember, looks piqued. Cord stands further back, staring straight ahead and his jaw clenched.

"Ladies first!" Loc sings, gesturing to the girls' section. My chest gets tight and I bite the inside of my lip. He reaches into the glass bowl and shuffles the papers around. He hums himself a little song and I feel like vomiting. It feels like a million years and then he pulls his hand out with a flourish and waves a single slip above his head with a chuckle, "And the lucky lady is…"

All I can think is _please don't be me, please don't be me._

"Persei Moon!" I feel my face and my fingers get cold. The sun is blazing above me but I'm slowly freezing where I stand. Margo's holding on to my elbow but all I can see are Loc's shining white teeth in his wide mouth, "Did I say that right?" He turns to the mayor, concerned. Mayor Temple doesn't respond and Loc repeats, "Persei Moon? Dear, where are you?"

The girls part a path for me and I remember to walk, one foot first then the other. My stride is more confident than I feel and my head is about to explode with my heart pounding blood so hard. My palms sweat and I'm sure the burning in my eyes is the stress of tears. But my face isn't wet. I can't let myself cry. Not now. Not in front of my district. Not on live television. I climb the steps of the platform and stand next to Loc who places what I'm sure is supposed to be a congratulatory arm around my shoulder. Instead, it feels like I'm about to be suffocated by a giant snake.

"Hello, hello, Persei Moon! What a _fabulous_ name! Why don't we have a round of applause?" He leads the clapping but while his is excited, the crowd's is scattered, hesitant almost. _This can't be real_. I think. _I'm still asleep in the barn._ I see Epona's face in the crowd. There's a pained expression on her face. Next to her are Channing and her goat breeder husband. What was his name again? I can't remember. Channing's face is contorted, like she's trying not to cry.

Loc moves on to the boys. With the same flourish, he picks a name. My heart is still pounding in my ears and the cold has spread to my arms and legs. _I'm going to die_. I think. _I'll be dead in two weeks. They'll send my body back to be buried here._

"Brisby Temple!" If my heart could explode, it would. I can see the mayor from the corner of my eye and his face is like stone. There's a murmur running through the crowd but no one volunteers. No one ever volunteers. A small boy walks up the stairs to stand beside Loc. Compared to the tall, lithe Capitol citizen, Brisby is tiny, frail even. As the mayor's son, I doubt he's never had to go a day without eating but suddenly it seems that even the softest breeze would blow this boy away. Loc turns gentle,

"Hello there, Brisby." Brisby's face is ashen and he can only nod. Guilt wells up in my throat and Margo's voice echoes in my ear. _"His son just turned twelve."_ I'm sick to my stomach when Loc tells us to shake hands. I'm briefly thankful for not eating breakfast or I'd vomit all over Loc's velvet body suit. I try to give Brisby a reassuring hand squeeze and his hazel eyes are full of tears. He nods and blinks furiously.

I wonder how long both of us can keep up this bravery act.

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**A/N: **This started as a joke between a friend and I about how funny it would be if Gordon Ramsay and Anthony Bourdain were your mentors for the Hunger Games. It's evolved into this. I haven't come across any Hunger Games fics that have the same concept I'm going to use. I'll do some more digging. If you have difficulty picturing Loc, I based (a lot of) him off of Ruby Rhod from _The Fifth Element._


	2. Sheep for the Slaughter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games, only my characters.

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**Chapter Two**

****Sheep for the Slaughter

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We're ushered into the Great Hall by Peacekeepers and led to separate rooms.

Now is when I see who will come to see me off. Will they even allow anyone to see me? Technically, I'm an orphan. I have no parents. Do I just sit here for an hour?

I've never been inside the Great Hall before. This side room is small and simple. Warm paneled wooden walls and hardwood floors. There's a wide desk towards the back with a big leather armchair. Mounted on the wall above the armchair is the massive skull of a steer. I take a seat in one of the smaller leather chairs in front of the desk. The leather is cool against my thighs. All I can hear is my heart _thump, thump, thump._

The door opens and I'm afraid to turn my head. I'm afraid my hour has already whipped by and a Peacekeeper is here to herd me to the train station.

"Persei." It's Epona. I turn to see her, Margo and Cord.

"That was some Reaping." I manage to say and suddenly Epona is hugging me so tightly my chest hurts. Or maybe it's just Reaping anxiety. Margo's arms bind me closer to Epona, then Cord's and the four of us stand huddled together for a few shaky moments.

"Pay attention to everything Ramsay and Bourdain tell you." Epona says harshly, pulling away. She grips my shoulders and stares me down. All I can do is nod, "They've won before. They'll be helpful. You've put down horses and cattle before, it's not much different." I swallow.

"They're not going to give me a captive bolt gun, Epona." Margo hugs me again.

"I don't know what to say." She tells me.

"It's okay." I pat her back and part of me wants to laugh and cry at the fact that it's _me_ comforting _her_. She's not the one going off to be slaughtered. Margo untangles her arms and steps back and I strain my neck to look up at Cord. He holds my face between his calloused hands and stares down at me.

"You're going to be fine." He says and I say nothing. He has to know that I won't be fine. I don't know why he says this to me. I don't know why anyone says this to me. I know it's meant to be reassuring but there is only one winner at the Hunger Games and it's normally someone from District 1, 2 or 4. I'm just a ranch hand.

"Time's up." I didn't hear the door open but Peacekeepers are standing there, waiting for Margo and Epona and Cord to file out. There's nothing more to say as I watch them leave. As the door closes, I wonder if I should've said, "I love you."

But I don't think I do love them. I care for Margo and I'm grateful to Epona. Cord is just someone I've worked with, a friend too, I suppose. But there is no love there. At least I don't think there is.

The door opens again, much to my surprise and it's Channing. It looks like she's been crying. But her eyes are dry now and she holds her head high.

"It's a good thing I gave you that Reaping dress or maybe I would've gotten picked."

"You lucked out," I reply, "You're nineteen now. Married."

"Jealous?" Her voice is light but she doesn't smile.

"Never. You should be jealous of me. I'm off to the Capitol." I try to smile but I think my expression is ugly. More of a twisted grimace than a grin.

"Can I give you one more thing?" She asks, walking toward me.

"Can you afford to?"

"I'll have you know," She sniffs, "My husband does quite well breeding goats." She takes something from her pocket. Channing slowly unravels it and I see it's a long leather cord necklace with a small, flat metal coin. I let her put it around my neck and it hangs to my breastbone.

"Thank you." I say and she squeezes my hands. Then she's gone.

I don't know how much time goes by but Peacekeepers arrive and take me to the station. There are reporters and cameras and flashing lights and I just keep bottling the feelings brewing in my chest. I can tell Brisby's been crying and he sniffles all the way into the train. Loc rambles about how happy he is to have such diverse tributes and that even though our Reaping wasn't too exciting, there's still the Tribute parade and the interviews. He hopes we can make a big impact there. How much of an impact can livestock make? Suddenly, I'm struck with the image of Brisby and I wearing slices of raw meat and I resist the urge to pull a face.

When we're ushered on to the train, the doors slide shut behind us and the clamor of reporters disappears. I'm relieved. The incessant _click click click_ and the questions and lights were irritating to say the least. We pull out of the station and the only sound now is the quiet hum of the train as we fly through District 10.

The train is the most beautiful and luxurious thing I've ever seen. Crystal chandeliers gently sway from the ceiling. Everything is mahogany and cobalt and satiny gray. The carpet is rich and thick and soft. I almost feel guilty for wearing my shoes. Almost. The walls are lined with intricate and flowery gray wallpaper. The patterns and swirls are raised and I'm tempted to run my hands all along the walls but I'm pretty sure that even Loc would see that behavior as strange.

I'm shown my room and told that everything is at my disposal but to join Loc in the dining car in two hours. I still haven't seen Bourdain or Ramsay since the Reaping and Brisby and I didn't have much of a chance to talk. I don't think I even want to talk to him. We'll be at each other's throats in a few days anyway. I run my hands along my bedding. Everything is in shades of blue, to calm me I suppose. When we transport cattle to the slaughter, we have to keep them calm and complacent. There's nothing worse than a scared animal.

There's a closet full of beautiful clothes and I have my own bathroom with a shower. Never in my life have I had a shower and I immediately strip out of my clothes to test it out. The water is warm and soft and different buttons control the temperature and pressure. I have access to perfumes and oils but I don't know which ones to pick so I don't use any. I stay in there for as long as I can bear and a part of me wishes I could stay in there forever.

The towels are plush and absorbent and incredibly soft. It's too bad all this luxury is costing me my life. I carefully fold my Reaping dress. I want to make sure to bring it with me to the Capitol. I dress in a soft, amber tunic that hangs to above my knees. I'm convinced it's meant to hit higher but my height always makes me look like a child dressing in adult clothes. I tie up my hair in a messy bun and exit my compartment. I can't bring myself to cry yet. I'm afraid if I start crying, I won't stop.

I peek my head into the dining cart to see Brisby already seated with Loc and Ramsay. Bourdain is still absent. I sit next to Brisby and he regards me warily. I don't know if I should smile or what; I don't want to give him the wrong impression but I suppose he already knows that one of us has to die. I nod and he nods back. Loc addresses Ramsay,

"Will Bourdain be joining us soon?" Ramsay raises an eyebrow at him.

"What do you think?" Loc sighs but then smiles at Brisby and I.

"I'm going to go check on Bourdain; how 'bout you get started on dinner?" He stands and glides to the opposite end of the dining car and slips through a door. I look at Ramsay.

"Do you think he'll be successful?" Ramsay is already diving into the first course, a creamy white grain with circular pieces of a white meat. He shrugs, taking a few bites. I watch him make a face and he spits out his food, pushing his dish away.

"What's wrong with it?" Brisby asks. He has a forkful of the meat, inches away from his mouth.

"It's bland," Ramsay snaps, "No seasoning." Brisby and I share a look. The kid steels himself and takes the bite. He chews thoughtfully for a few moments before swallowing.

"I like it." He states.

"That's because you have no palette."

"What is it?" I interrupt. I don't want to be arguing over food. Ramsay eyes me over his glass of water.

"Scallops with risotto. It's a kind of rice," I push the scallops around on my plate. I've never heard of either of those things before, "Scallops come from the sea." Oh. That's why. I take a bite. The scallops are thick but easy to chew. The risotto is creamy and it tastes fine to me. Maybe years of eating Capitol food have made Ramsay a picky eater. I can't afford to be picky. We finish the course in silence, even though I'm starting to feel desperate to discuss strategy. The last thing I want is to be slaughtered in the blood bath at the Cornucopia.

"What's the first thing we should do in the Games?" I ask after a few more mouthfuls.

"Eager are you?"

"I just don't want to die in the first five minutes." I try my best to hold Ramsay's gaze. He refused a prosthetic eye and wears a patch over his empty socket. His gray-blue eye is unnerving. It feels like he's testing me. I figure if I can handle Epona, I can handle Ramsay. I think. The second course is served, a salad with goat cheese and slices of nectarine. Brisby and I devour our salads as Loc returns with a bleary Bourdain.

"Guess the gang's all here." Bourdain slurs, sinking into the chair beside Ramsay. He ignores his salad and reaches for one of the rolls in the center of the table. A Capitol server takes away our dishes and Bourdain's untouched salad to bring in the main course of roasted lamb with small red potatoes and gravy. Brisby and I use the rolls to sop up the remaining sauce. I make sure to eat everything on my plate. I could afford to put on some weight for the Games. Bourdain doesn't say much, but continues drinking and eating. At least the eating is a good sign. Ramsay eats his plate of the lamb. Maybe it's more to his taste. Loc glances between all of us, as if he's waiting for an explosion of dialogue.

No one says anything through the course of cheese and fruit. I quietly munch on apple slices, wondering what the hell I'm going to do. Epona told me to listen to Bourdain and Ramsay but neither of them is saying much. Dessert is a light, spongy cake laden with cream and strawberries. I eat my whole serving of that too, even though I'm starting to feel a little sick. Brisby doesn't finish his, understandably so. All this rich food might make a reappearance in my toilet before the end of the night.

"Well," Loc begins brightly, "I'm going to turn in for the night. Tomorrow's gonna be a big, bad, fabulous day!" Brisby gives him a little wave and Loc exits to, I presume, his own compartments. I accept the Capitol server's offer of tea and watch as Ramsay fixes his with cream. I mimic him and take a sip. Aside from burning my tongue, it's a little bitter so I add sugar. I love sweet things.

"I know you're a ranch hand," Ramsay nods at me before looking at Brisby, "And I know you're the mayor's son. Now is there anything useful either of you can do?" I look to Brisby and he's wary to answer. I understand why. At any point in the Games, I can use this information against him and the same goes for him, "Go on. Answer. I can't help either one of you if I don't know much about you."

"I'm okay with a slingshot." Brisby whispers, licking his lips. Ramsay nods.

"Okay, I can work with that," He looks at me again, "Epona told me you're handy with a whip."

"You talked to Epona?" I'm surprised. I didn't think mentors could talk to anyone about us. But I guess we were still in District 10 so it might not matter.

"Yes, I did. And you know how to handle a knife?" I nod. I suppose I do. I've used knives around the ranch as tools, sometimes to clean the horses' hooves and if we had downtime, I used to throw knives with the boys against the back of the barn, "Good. That's better than nothing."

"When do we start?" I ask, "How do we get sponsors? How do we find shelter in the arena? Water?"

"Ramsay's not too good with the sponsors." Bourdain leans back in his chair, pushing away his cup and saucer.

"Is that how you won? By getting sponsors?" Brisby looks at him inquisitively. Bourdain shrugs,

"People liked me. That's how you get sponsors. People have to like you. The rest is our job," He blinks at Ramsay, "Or my job, rather. He's a bit too grumpy for the sponsors' tastes."

"How did you win?" I'm curious now. I don't know Bourdain's story. Back in District 10, he keeps to himself living in the Victor's Village and drinking.

"Magic." He sneers and gets up from the table, swaying out of the dining car. I look at Brisby. The kid looks pained. Our mentors aren't being too helpful.

"What are we going to do?" He whispers. I frown. This needs to go somewhere. We need information, mentoring. Sitting around scared isn't going to do anything for me except get me killed. I don't expect to win but I want the chance to. I turn my gaze back to Ramsay,

"Can you get me a whip for the arena?" Maybe he senses a change in me because he leans forward on his elbows.

"If it's not in the Cornucopia, I can't send you one. But a sponsor can," His eyes dart to Brisby, "There should be a slingshot but don't rely on that. Do you know how to make one?" Brisby nods, "Good, that's important. The first thing that's going to happen is you're going to meet with your stylists. They'll prep you for tomorrow night's Tribute Parade and dress you for the interview. Do whatever they tell you to. Whatever crazy idea they have, go along with it. It's their job to make you stand out and trust me, you're going to need it."

He's right. Poorer districts rarely attract much sponsor attention but Bourdain apparently won with the help of sponsors. I want to know how though.

"How did Bourdain win?" I ask quietly. Ramsay motions for more tea and takes a moment to add cream and stir it before answering.

"He's personable. More so when he's not drinking. People at the Games liked him, I guess. He garnered a lot of sponsors."

"Yeah, okay, but what did they send him? Guns aren't allowed in the arena, are they?"

"Alcohol."

"What?"

"They sent him alcohol and fuel. He had matches in his pack and used water bottles and pieces of his clothes to craft fire bombs." I stare.

"He set his opponents on fire?" Ramsay nods, taking another drink of tea. My cup is cold. _No wonder Bourdain drinks._

"Aren't those things expensive though?" Brisby asks, "He must have had a lot of sponsors."

"He kept a low profile for most of the game until there were about four people left."

"He must've had good aim." I mutter. The Capitol had to have loved that. A tribute setting his opponents on fire as a means to kill them.

"Get some sleep," Ramsay orders sternly, "There'll be no time for rest tomorrow. It'll be a busy day."

I flop down on my bed when I get to my compartment. _All right_, I tell myself. _Go ahead. Let it out. _But still no tears. Maybe it's too late for tears. Maybe I should've swallowed my pride and let myself weep on national television. Maybe that should've been my strategy; be weak, docile, weepy. Make my competitors think I'm useless. But what then? I don't have the prowess to butcher them after luring them into a false state of security. I wish I had been a butcher's apprentice, like Ramsay. Maybe then I'd stand a better chance.

With my head full of maybes, I fall into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Wax and Ambiguity

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games, only my characters.

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**Chapter Three**

Wax and Ambiguity

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My head is foggy when I wake. The train moves along at the same steady pace. I lay there, swaddled in sheets for I don't know how long. I'm still so tired. I slept longer than I ever have but I'm still exhausted. Briefly, I wonder if I should've asked Ramsay how he felt when he was Reaped. But I doubt hearing it would do me any good.

There's a knock. I pull the covers up over me,

"Yes?" I croak. My throat hurts. I need water. The door slides open slightly and Brisby's mousey brown head pokes inside, "Hi." I say,

"Loc wants us to sit down together for breakfast." He mumbles,

"Oh?" He nods,

"Bourdain is already there," That surprises me, "I think he and Ramsay had… words."

"Ah," I shift, "I'll get dressed and meet you out there." He nods again and slides the door shut. I sit there for a few moments. I feel like I'm in a strange dream. Everything feels so… normal. I suppose it is.

I decide to wear my Reaping dress again. We're arriving in the Capitol in a few hours. I have to start thinking about strategy. Will I be the sweet, country girl from District 10? The rough and tumble ranch hand? Strong and silent? It's different for girls. Our looks are played up if we have no skills to display and I'm sure I won't win by roping cattle. I might not even last the first day. Suddenly it feels like a stone dropped in my stomach. I stand in front of my door.

What am I going to do? How do I even ask Ramsay and Bourdain for help? What about Brisby? _No,_ I think,_ I can't… someone else will._ Twelve year olds don't last long in the arena.

Bourdain and Ramsay are seated away from each other when I arrive in the dining cart. It does look like they had strong words. Bourdain looks like a wreck, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and his salt and pepper hair sticks up in some places. His clothes are nicer than the ones he wore yesterday but disheveled. Ramsay wears a crisp, dark grey suit. His black eye patch obscures his expression with his head turned to the side. He delves into his eggs and bacon.

Brisby sits by Loc, nibbling on toast. He wears his Reaping clothes too. Perhaps we'll be presented as a united front. I sit across from him and a Capitol server swoops in to pour me a glass of orange juice. Loc beams at me,

"Good morning!" He trills. Loc reminds me of a very strange, colorful bird. I don't mind him as much as I thought I would, "Got a big, busy day! We'll be in the Capitol in a few hours; oh, I'm so excited for you to see it! It's absolutely _breathtaking_. Then you're scheduled for a clean up and then you'll meet your stylists and there's the parade and hopefully we can nab some sponsors for you two." His words spill out like feed from a broken bag,

"Who are our stylists?" I manage to ask, "Fonya and Seibel?" They've been the District 10 stylists for quite some time, for as long as I can remember actually. Both like to match and pick different themes and colors for each Game. One year, they were decked in luxurious feathers and even had long feather lashes attached to their eyelids. Last year, they covered themselves in gems and tiny stones. Flamboyant is one way to describe them,

"No," Loc begins carefully, "There was actually a last minute switch. Caused quite a stir!" He beams at us, "This is good news!" Brisby and I glance at each other,

"Sponsors will ask questions," Bourdain interjects. Brisby jumps in his seat, "It is good news. No one really asks questions about districts that aren't 1, 2 and 4." I nod. _This is it_, I think,

"So what's the plan?" I glance between Bourdain and Ramsay, "What now?" Bourdain gestures for a Capitol server to refill his porcelain cup. The server steps forward with a silver decanter and pours a steaming, black liquid into his cup. Coffee. I've never had it before,

"Let the sponsors talk," Bourdain sighs, "I'll try to talk you two up but you need to pick how you're going to play this," His eyes sweep over my face and figure, "Once the stylists get their hands on you, you might be able to get somewhere. Male sponsors hate seeing pretty girls die," I bite my tongue. I can't tell if that was a compliment or an insult. I've never been called pretty before. No one really focuses on looks when you're busy changing horseshoes and shoveling manure,

"And you," He takes a long drink from his cup while looking at Brisby, "What are you like outside of this?" He swirls his finger in the air. Brisby sinks into his chair under Bourdain's gaze,

"Uh, I'm- I, erm-" He splutters. Guilt pulls my heart into my throat.

"The cutesy, stuttering deal works best with girls. Pick something else," Bourdain interrupts,

"Hey," I snap, "Not everyone has a big personality to woo sponsors with. This isn't easy." My moment of anger shrinks to nothingness as Bourdain stares me down. I square my shoulders,

"There's no point in babying you two." And that's the end of the conversation.

Brisby offers me a timid sort of smile when Bourdain isn't looking.

The rest of the trip goes on in relative silence only interrupted by Loc's twittering. I stare at the breakfast table. Fruit is laid out on ice and tiered trays carry pastries and assorted sweets I've only ever seen in town but never tasted. Stacks of toasted white and brown bread, butter shaped into little animals and flowers and jars of preserves and jam. I'm not as hungry as I was the day before and only nibble on fruit and toast. I take my tea with cream and sugar. If there's one thing I'll miss from this experience, it will be sugar. Well, if I survive,

"Oh, there it is!" Loc exclaims wistfully. I look out the window. There it is indeed. The Capitol: a shining monument of our oppression. I can't help but feel bitter at the sight of the illuminated buildings. As we pull into the station, we see a surging crowd swarmed outside,

"Smile, darlings. You're on camera." Ramsay drawls, finishing his tea. Loc ushers Brisby and I to the window,

"Wave," He encourages us, smiling, "You want them to love you," Brisby smiles tentatively and gives the crowd a shy wave. They wave back enthusiastically. I search the faces of the crowd. One of them could save my life as my sponsor. The thought is daunting. So I smile. I smile and I wave, "Blow a kiss!" Loc whispers in my ear. I don't think I'm that daring but he gives me a little nudge. I blow a kiss. A few of them point and wave and laugh and if they weren't cheering me on to my death, they might make me feel good.

I decide right then and there to smile as much as possible. _You want them to love you_. I need them to love me. I need them to want me to win.

Peacekeepers clear a path for us and lead us to long cars with plush seats. Ramsay grips my arm and Brisby's shoulder and pulls us in close,

"Listen to your stylists. They're your friends in this." We nod and get pulled into one car with Loc as Ramsay and Bourdain pile into a separate car,

"Where are they going?" Alarm radiates from Brisby,

"They're off to get cleaned up and start the buzz," Loc explains, waving a long hand dismissively, "Don't worry about them. This is all about you!"

They shuttle us to a massive building. The Tributes' tower. At least twelve stories high, it'll be my home for the next few days until we're shipped to the arena. Brisby and I are split up and I'm stripped of my clothes. A silent Capitol servant hands me a thin shift that ties in the back and I'm led into a long, sterile room with stations separated by curtains.

I'm greeted enthusiastically by three colorful people,

"Hello, lovely!" An androgynous man with perfectly manicured eyebrows and paper lashes with intricately cut designs picks me up and sets me on the table. A tiny woman with pale green hair and unnatural turquoise eyes pushes me onto my back. Her violet lips smile at me,

"We'll have you cleaned up in no time!"

"I'm Valentine," The man says, "That's Clio," The woman with pale green hair gives me a cheerful wave, "And that's Katya!" A tall, statuesque woman with satiny brown skin and gold hair braided tightly against her scalp in zigzag patterns stands at the end by my feet. She regards me with a cool smile as she picks up a thin hose.

They busy themselves with untying the shift and hosing me down. Valentine draws the curtains around us for privacy.

Katya takes another small hose and blasts me dry with hot air. Clio spreads thick, warm wax on my legs and presses strips of paper on before ripping the hair off my legs. The sensation shocks me and I feel my eyes get a little teary. I blink furiously, refusing to cry. Katya takes a pair of scissors to my hair,

"Just trimming the dead ends." She assures me.

Katya snips away as Valentine and Clio proceed to rid my body of hair, from my legs to my armpits, my upper lip and my eyebrows. Clio goes to remove the hair from between my legs but Katya stops her,

"We don't have time." She insists but I think she saw the fear in my face. Capitol people are very touchy. But I'm not exactly in a position to complain.

They scrub my hands and feet, using long, flat pieces of thin metal to clean beneath my nails. I'm slathered with creams and clay and rinsed off again. They slick me down with a sweet smelling lotion and wrap me up in my shift again,

"Time to meet Mara!" Valentine beams at me and I'm ushered into a room to wait for my stylist. I think I've heard of Mara before but I can't remember. I sit on the cold metal table, absently kicking my legs. The door silently slides open and I look up.

A beautiful woman walks in with skin the color of milk tea. Her dark purple hair hangs straight around her face and down her shoulders,

"Stand, please," Her voice is soft and warm, "Disrobe." I untie my shift and lay it on the metal table. She circles me, grey eyes flickering over my body inspecting, I suppose, her subordinates' work. She makes a noise like she's realized something, or made a connection,

"What is it?" I ask, mouth dry, "Is something wrong?" She looks at me and smiles,

"No. I just… understand," But I don't understand. I stand there, confused, "I'm Mara," She takes one final look at me, "You can put that robe back on." As I tie the shift on, I ask,

"You originally designed for a different district, right?" She nods,

"District 8. I asked to switch."

"Oh." I stand there awkwardly for a few moments,

"Why don't you go up to your floor for a late lunch?" Mara asks gently, "I'll join you shortly. There's a call I need to make." All I can do is dumbly nod and follow her into the hall. A Capitol server is waiting for me and leads me to the elevators that take me to the tenth floor. The elevator shoots up fast and I feel a thrill in my stomach.

Bourdain and Ramsay are sitting at a long dining table when the doors open. They appear deep in conversation so I quietly follow my guide down another hall. He keeps his gaze averted from mine and I don't bother with conversation. He stands in front of a door and pushes a button on a panel to the side. The door opens and I'm exposed to a large, round room. An enormous circular bed is in the middle with silk gold sheets and a variety of pillows in bronze and gold.

The Capitol server bows his head and steps out and I'm truly alone for the first time since this morning. I explore the cabinets and closet to find more clothes than I can count. I pick a dress fitted around the bust that flows over my hips. It fades from dark blue to a delicate peach. I opt to go barefoot and join Bourdain and Ramsay in the dining area.

They look surprised to see me,

"Where's your stylist?" Ramsay quirks a brow. I shrug as I take a seat,

"She said she had to make a call."

"Who did you get?" Bourdain asks, scrutinizing me,

"Mara. She used to design for District 8." I reach for a honey and herb roll and dip it in a delicious smelling gravy. I pile fish and rice onto my plate with a generous portion of buttered mushrooms,

"I wonder what she'll do for the pageant," Bourdain muses, swirling wine around in a glass, "Let's hope she and Roth come up with something that isn't an embarrassment." Roth; that must be Brisby's stylist,

"The parade is in a few hours. Don't eat too much," Ramsay grimaces. I pause mid bite,

"Ramsay puked before his Tribute parade. What did they make you wear again?" Bourdain smirks. My one-eyed mentor glares at him. I slow my eating. Instead of seconds, I opt for a small, dense chocolate cake and mini sugar tarts with berries. I don't understand how the Capitol citizens aren't rolling around in wheelbarrows with all the fat and sugar they consume. Not that I'm complaining. I'll miss sweets in the arena.

The doors _whoosh_ open and I look up to see Mara, Brisby and the white haired man I presume to be Roth, enter. Mara and Roth chat animatedly over Brisby's head. The kid looks polished a little less queasy. He offers me a small smile and a little wave when he sees me. My stomach flip-flops with guilt but I push it away and return the smile. He plops down in front of me and begins to load up his plate.

Loc bursts in, teetering on immense platform shoes. He's changed his outfit and added accessories to his hair, probably in preparation for tonight's parade,

"How y'all doin'?" He beams, sitting by Ramsay and Bourdain. A Capitol server silently steps forward to fill his glass,

"So, you had to make a call?" Ramsay inquires, his gaze boring into Mara. She smiles, her face indecipherable,

"Just to make some arrangements. Well, to arrange to make arrangements, I suppose." Brisby and I share a look. Bourdain squints at her,

"Really? Already?"

"There was a special request." She sips water and delicately serves herself small portions of fruit. Bourdain's face becomes unreadable,

"I see." The adults become intensely quiet. I look to Brisby and he shrugs, already on his second helping of pork chops. Loc clears his throat,

"So! Mara, Roth, what are the plans for the tribute parade tonight?" Mara and Roth share a secret smile,

"We did some research on the history of District 10. We went pretty far back, managed to look at some relics." When both the stylists look at Brisby and I, my stomach twists in knots like a bag of snakes. Maybe Ramsay is right about eating light.


End file.
